


Unplanned Events (Have a Way of Happening Anyhow)

by soundingsea



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Gen, High School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-03
Updated: 2005-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-07 12:37:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soundingsea/pseuds/soundingsea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This job would be great, if it weren't for all the students.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unplanned Events (Have a Way of Happening Anyhow)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks: melange for brainstorming, wisteria_ for fact-checking, jidabug for beta-reading and the platitude-calendar structure, ironchefjoe for a quick once-over. Any mistakes are mine.

  
  
  


September 29, 2003  
  
---  
  
We choose our joys and sorrows long before we experience them. -- Kahlil Gibran  
  
 

This job would be great, if it weren't for all the students. Monday mornings were the worst; traffic was always a pain, and the kids were restless, hyped up from the weekend and unwilling to settle into a structured routine.

Van Clemmons sighed, looking at the day-planner lying open on his desk. The neat rows of boxes, originally so blank and pristine, were now filled with cramped notes.

The new IT guy sent by the district had installed some kind of computer calendar, but he wasn't about to entrust his plans to some software. It was anyone's guess which would happen first: a printout of his schedule on every desk in school, or a modification here and there, sending him to the wrong meetings and destroying his carefully plotted grid.

Cacophony from the hallway led him to poke his head outside. Looked like the bikers were starting trouble again. Shouldering his way through the crowd, Van pulled a bald kid off one of the sweater-vest set, glaring and holding him at arm's length.

"You. Into my office, now. Fighting will not be tolerated."

"What, you're not going to haul that _puto_'s ass in too?"

"Tad Wilson doesn't have a history of disruptive behavior, Mr. Navarro. You do. Now move."

 

  
  
  


September 30, 2003  
  
---  
  
To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead. -- Bertrand Russell  
  
 

Mid-morning Tuesday was when Van usually worked on his to-dos for the rest the week. He felt vaguely guilty about not doing it on Monday, but meetings tended to take up most of that day: both the scheduled kind, and the impromptu tête-à-têtes with the usual suspects.

Speaking of which, he needed to call the Navarro kid's grandmother again. Kid didn't show up for detention yesterday and wasn't in school today. Big surprise there.

Leaning against his desk, Van shuffled papers, stopping at one particular sage-colored memo. Friday's inservice for the teaching and admin staff would mean a blessed lack of the pitter-patter of little (and not-so-little) feet. Now he just needed to pick the lesser of two boredoms.

An unexpected voice rang out from his office doorway. "Which seminar will you be attending?"

Van looked up in surprise. Ms. James didn't usually ask his opinion about anything. "Er. Let's see... they're offering pedagogy," he stalled, sucking his gut in and regretting that danish.

"Yawn," she said cheerily. "Wasn't that the topic for the first one this year? Look, there's a second choice for non-teaching staff: techniques for dealing with combative students."

Van sniffed. "I'd ship the lot of them straight to juvenile hall if I had my druthers."

"Oh, Van. Really," she said with a smile.

After she breezed back to her office, he filled out the slip for choice number two. After all, Ms. James was right. Methodology was for people who logged more than the occasional substitute hour of classroom time. Combative Students seemed to be for feisty counselors and the men who just might end up sitting next to them.

 

  
  
  


October 1, 2003  
  
---  
  
Our deeds determine us, as much as we determine our deeds. -- George Eliot  
  
 

Wednesday, it was Van's turn to patrol the lunch courtyard. Kids sat clumped in their cliques, like sitting with like. Much good bussing and integration had done. And it wasn't as if any of these kids ever thought about the civil rights movement. Probably thought it was all about their supposed right to smoke up, or their equally imaginary right to food delivery.

Squinting against the noonday sun, Van made his way to a table at which a couple of girls were eating sandwiches wrapped in bright green and white paper. He pulled out a notebook and made a show of checking.

"Yolanda Hamilton, is it?" He furrowed his brow; made him look more intimidating.

The girl was like a doe in his headlights, big-eyed and scared. "Did I - is there something wrong?"

"Hasn't your friend," he said, flicking his gaze to the other African-American girl seated at the table, "told you about Pirate Points?"

"I'm sorry; I'm new, and I haven't managed to figure out much yet," Yolanda said quietly, looking past him to a table full of laughing kids. She looked far sadder than somebody with a club sandwich should.

"I'll let it go this time, but you've got to get involved in the school to be allowed lunch delivery."

When he returned to his desk, Van made a note to call Mars' office and schedule the next locker search. He wasn't getting soft.

 

  
  
  


October 2, 2003  
  
---  
  
We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence then is not an act, but a habit. -- Aristotle  
  
 

Thursday's lunch had come and gone, but the afternoon announcements still hadn't been broadcast. At 1:30pm, Van corralled one of the so-called anchors and brought her into the TV studio.

"Ms. Manning, is it? Let me remind you that your crack news team has forgotten tomorrow's events in every broadcast this week."

"But we talked about the inservice," she protested. "And I'm not doing the broadcasts yet-"

"Although there are no classes," Van interrupted, "Please mention that the pep squad is holding a car wash fundraiser in the front parking lot. Also, sports team practices will still occur. "

She winced and then smiled as the cameras and lights started.

After dealing with the news anchor crisis, Van took a quick break. He dried his hands and adjusted his tie before heading out of the men's washroom. In the front office, he met his 2pm.

"Mr. Rooks, you're the leading candidate for our history position. What do you think of the place?"

"I like it a lot. Definitely think I can teach these kids."

"So what made you move on from teaching private school?"

 

  
  
  


October 3, 2003  
  
---  
  
When it's all over, it's not who you were. It's whether you made a difference. -- Bob Dole  
  
 

Driving home Friday, Van Clemmons was on autopilot; his mind was already miles away from the school, in the comfy post-war neighborhood across town lines where an underpaid school administrator could actually buy a rambler. Sure, the commute was a bitch. But at least there was some decent take-out to be had along the way.

Inservice had been a yawner as expected. The touchy-feely bullshit the district was pushing was just this year's trend. Next year it would be tough love all over again.

Pulling into his driveway, he grabbed the nice vintage of Sauvignon Blanc that the wine shop had been thoughtful enough to chill. It would go well with the pasta salad from the attached cheese shop's deli case.

He sliced up the crusty bread from the co-op, drizzled some olive oil on a plate, poured himself some wine, and set up the whole lot on the coffee table. Sure, he had a dining room table, but it was just a receptacle for briefcase, shopping bags, and mail.

Ready to kick back and enjoy the evening at last, he slouched down in his leather recliner and tuned it to CBS. JAG was just starting. He sipped his wine; drinkable and fruity. And the best part was having no students around to ruin things until Monday morning.

Three minutes in, the local affiliate interrupted the program in progress with breaking news.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> The keen-eyed reader will note a canon error regarding Rooks' tenure at Neptune. My bad. No graceful way to fix, so I'm leaving it as-is. We'll just pretend it's a slight AU. :)


End file.
